


Degrade My Soul

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blood As Lube, Bondage, Gags, M/M, Prisoner abuse, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:44:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3638937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Season 2, episode 12 "Better Angels." Randall managed to slip his cuffs before Shane came in to see him. Shane winds up injured, Randall recaptured, and Rick just can't hold it together anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Degrade My Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alpha_with_the_red_eyes143](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_with_the_red_eyes143/gifts).



Tears filled those big brown eyes, and it just pissed Rick off even more. 

"I said, 'Don't look at me!'" he growled deep in his chest before backhanding Randall across his face. He used the momentum of blow to twist the kid onto his belly, to grind his tears into the dirt. His own stomach lurched painfully, the bile rising in his throat to burn against the torn gravel of his vocal chords. 

They had--/he/ had to do something. Randall hurt one of Rick's people, and he had to hurt him back. The kid had to learn. 

Randall choked on a yell as Rick pressed his knee into his back. He pressed harder, aiming to cause pain and restrict his breathing. He was taught to never do this, to never purposefully harm someone, and he had to fight against the impulse to call the whole thing off. It would be easy to call it off. All he had to do was take his gun--

Rick pressed even harder, and Randall wheezed out a long, low moan of misery. 

"You think you can come here, threaten my people? You think you can /hurt/ my people?" Rick leaned close, pressing an elbow into the back of Randall's head as he sneered into his ear. "Shane's blood is on your hands." It was the literal truth, the brown smears dried across torn knuckles. It was hard to tell from the damage the kid did to his own flesh by slipping out of those cuffs, but Rick could smell the difference. Shane was bleeding out, and this piece of garbage was responsible. 

Rick pressed his weight into the points of contact, grinding into bone and skin to push his threat into Randall's cells. By the end of this, he'd be wearing Rick's warning against his skin, a visible sign to never mess with his family. No one will ever mess with his family again. 

"Please." Randall's voice was high and frightened, pushed out weakly between swollen, split lips and dirt that clogged his snotty nose. "Please don't kill me."

Rick pushed himself up off his body, standing tall like vengeance over the prone form. He unbuckled his gunbelt, and Randall flinched. Rick folded over the thick leather and backed away several paces, placing it on the floor by the door. "I'm not gonna kill you." He said it aloud, but it was more for his own sake than for the kid's. He wasn't going to kill him. But he needed to teach him a lesson. 

Rick stalked over to Randall, delivering a fast kick to his side that caused him to gag and curl around the bruise painfully. With his arms duct taped behind his back, he just rolled like a pitiful pill bug, sucking in air wetly. Rick rested his boot on the soiled wrapping around Randall's still-healing leg, and then pressed down hard. Randall howled.

"I'm not gonna kill you," he said again, raising his voice above the cries. "Not unless Shane dies."

A terrible knife of pain twisted in his heart, an echo of the fear he'd felt at seeing his friend, his brother, laid out on the forest floor bleeding and unconscious. This wasn't the world where cops were the good guys and hospitals saved lives. This was a world where dead things walked and the living were monsters. Maybe Hershel could pull off another miracle, but Rick felt like he'd already used up the last of his luck. The universe would demand something in payment for all he'd been given. 

Rick wanted to kill him. He could feel the raging hunger inside himself, the desire to take a knife and plunge it into that coward's back, over and over and over and over until the pain went away. He wanted to rip him apart with his bare hands, to tear away flesh with his teeth, to scratch at those big eyes until nothing but empty holes and silence remained. Every dark and ugly thought he'd ever had rose up inside him like a black hole, swallowing down all that was once good. 

He sucked in a long, shuddering breath, focusing, forcing down those horrible thoughts. He didn't want to kill him. Not if he didn't have to. But he had to teach the kid a lesson. 

Rick stepped off Randall's leg, letting him curl up as best he could around his various injuries. He paced around the broken little body, snarling and hating and /hurting/ so bad. An urge hit him, and he didn't hold back, spitting right at the dirt-caked cheek. It hit on the bruised curve of Randall's swollen eye, sliding away like a parody of the tears that had angered Rick so much. 

No one messes with Rick's family. With shaking fingers he unbuckled his belt and yanked the leather from the loops. The belt whistled and cracked with the violence of the movement, and Randall gave a frightened little shout, his whole body going rigid as he braced for another blow.

Randall's flinch did something to Rick. It loosened the anger a little, soothed the gnawing emptiness a tiny bit, just enough to let him breathe. He wrapped the leather around his hand once, twice, and clenched his fist around the thick warmth. He didn't think, just moved with animal-like clarity as he brought his fist down, swinging so that the leather whistled again before impacting with the bent body at his feet. Randall choked on his yelp, rolling to expose his back as he tried to wriggle away from the stinging pain. 

The knot inside him relaxed just a little more with the sight, a release that was so very much like pleasure. 

Rick whipped the belt down again, and again, and again, each time winning a broken cry from the young man. He was hurting him, but he needed to see, he wanted to see the dark marks raising on that thin skin. With a growl, Rick leaned over and dug his fingers into the collar of the worn henley, tugging with a strength unfamiliar in his bones. The soiled fabric tore, exposing the thin curves and long red lines of Randall's freshly beaten back. 

"You piece of garbage!" Rick yelled. He brought the belt down again, reveling in the relief as he watched the skin turn white, then red, then purple with his blows. "That's my brother!" The frustration of the past weeks, the fear and horror at all of it rolled into his fury, fueling his movements. He wrestled the shirt down to cover the blood on Randall's hands, and then worked to pull his jeans down to reveal more tender flesh for him to mark. 

The pale flesh of his buttocks jiggled and blushed as the leather impacted with sharp slaps. Randall opened his throat, crying in broken sobs and gasping breaths, cut-off words and syllables tripping over his bleeding lips. 

Rick's arm was caught mid-swing, in a grip so tight his tendons creaked against the arrested movement. He turned to look, and it took his swimming eyes long moments before he could make out the face staring back at him. 

"Rick!" Daryl shouted. He seemed to have been shouting for a while, his voice a vague buzzing over the sobbing cries of the kid tied and beaten on the floor. 

The moment his arm relaxed, Daryl let him go. Rick could feel the sweat dripping down his face, stinging his eyes, and he wiped his forehead across his arm as he let the belt unwind from his hand. It fell, curled like a deadly snake on the dirt. 

Rick squared himself up, finding his footing on suddenly uneven ground. His breath whistled in his lungs. "Is he--"

"Hershel's still working on him. No organs or nothing was hit, but the blow to the head got him worried." Daryl tossed something to the ground, where it landed with a dull thump. Randall's whimpers were tapering off, as though the kid were trying to listen. Rick stared at the object, not quite seeing it in the darkness. 

"Looks like he ripped a piece of wood off one of the beams, stuck it in him before bolting for the door." 

Rick kicked the bloody shard of weathered wood, watching it spin in the sticky dirt. Just a few minutes ago, it had been lodged inside his brother's gut. Even with that wicked thing stuck under his skin, Shane had still chased after Randall, his outraged roars enough to rouse the rest of the group. Rick had reached his side in time to see the blood gush over his face, Randall's hands fumbling with red-splashed rock as he tried to get out from under Shane's unconscious body. He'd barely gotten his gun out when Randall had dropped it, his hands flying skyward as he begged for his life. 

The darkness and pain rose back up, gripping his heart and tearing at his throat. 

"I should have shot you."

"It's not too late." 

Daryl's voice was raw, but honest. For a second, he'd forgotten the other man was there. When he met Daryl's eyes, his face was shuttered and unreadable. 

"Not unless Shane dies." It was crazy logic, but he felt like he had to keep to that promise to himself. Only kill the living if he had to. It was the last little bit of humanity in this world. "I'll only kill him if Shane dies."

Daryl wiped his hand over his mouth, his eyes skating across the floor to Rick's gun in the sunlight of the open door. "Doesn't have to be you. Just give me a few minutes alone--" 

Rick could see a flash of Dale's face, his pain and anguish and the fucking /gratitude/ that came up when Daryl pointed the muzzle at his face. Death was a release in this messed up world. It was a gift. 

"No. He deserves to suffer." 

Daryl walked over to the door, his steps quick and light. Rick thought he was leaving in disgust, but instead the man closed the door. He cast around in the shadows for a moment, pulling an old wood chair out of the mess abandoned in the shed and setting it against the door. Then he dusted off his hands and stared back at Rick. 

Daryl's gaze was unflinching. He met Rick's eyes and read every dark thought and bad idea he had running through his mind. Rick had never felt so open as he did under that gaze. Then the man shrugged one shoulder, slipping out of his angel-wing vest and leaving it on top of Rick's holster. 

"How're we doing this?"

The kid whimpered, high and long, his tiger-striped back rippling as he wormed away from the two men. Rick pressed his boot back onto Randall's injured leg, pinning him to the floor. "Hold him down."

Daryl nodded, nimbly stalking around Rick to slide to the floor. He pressed his hands into the bruised skin of Randall's over-stressed shoulders, leaning his weight in to crush his chest to the ground. Randall rocked and kicked his single free leg, but neither of them would let him move. 

"Please!" Randall choked, coughing on his own tears. 

"You don't get to beg!" Rick bellowed. He leaned into Daryl's space, pulling the knife from his belt with a deliberate movement. Daryl just nodded, shifting his weight to hold the prisoner down easier. Scratching the skin of his arm, Rick ran the knife through the dirty and ripped cloth bundled at Randall's wrists, cutting and tearing away a thick strip. He wrapped it around his fingers and stuffed it into Randall's mouth, pushing it deep on his tongue and leaving it there. He wiped the filth from his fingers onto his pants, and then gripped the knife tight. 

The urge to bury it into the vulnerable, quivering flesh was strong. Already the long marks left by his belt were purpling, splashes of red here and there where skin split or was caught by the knife. It wouldn't take much to open him all the way, let it all spill out and have this whole thing over with. His body ached with the need to see flesh part and fluid gush forth, to see Randall screaming on the end of a knife.

Rick drove the knife tip into the floor, the muted noise of metal hitting dirt pulling a muffled scream out of Randall's throat. He rested his hand on the hilt, staring at the bloodied piece of wood that had stabbed his friend. 

Randall deserved it, all of it, all the pain, all the hurt he'd caused Rick and Shane and his whole family, but he didn't deserve to die. Not yet. 

"He dies, you die." 

Rick's nails scraped over bruised skin as he gripped the loose band of Randall's pants and finished wrestling them off his legs. He smacked his hand against one bruised cheek, watching the skin shiver and muscles clench. He pressed his thumb into one swelling mark, driving it into the tight skin until blood pooled and covered his thumbnail. The sight of so much red swelling up made that tight knot of pain ease again, that flash of dark pleasure tickle at his bones.

Using both hands now, he pulled open Randall's ass cheeks. The kid's struggles renewed, his body rocking under Daryl's hands as Rick held him open. He spit directly onto the tender curl of flesh he'd revealed, then followed it with his bloody thumb, painting the skin with slick fluid. "You rotten piece of shit, this is more kindness than you deserve." 

He pressed his thumb into the tight opening, forcing it in with a rough wiggle. Muffled squeals rose up in the dusty space between Daryl's hands, Randall's whole body shuddering with the penetration. Rick lifted his eyes to Daryl's face. He didn't know what he was looking for, maybe the signal to stop, or one to keep going, but all he saw was the stony silence in Daryl's hard eyes, a determination to follow Rick's lead where ever it might go. 

Not letting himself think, just giving over to that overwhelming darkness, Rick pulled his thumb out of Randall's ass. He pushed his legs apart, leaning heavily on the more injured limb until Randall went flat with exhausted terror. He pulled at his fly, tearing at the button and zipper until it opened. He wrapped his bloodied hand around his dick, and was startled to feel the organ already thick and tight with need. He looked up again, into Daryl's eyes, and this time, the other man just nodded.

It was so tight, it hurt, internal muscles that squeezed and dragged over his erection as he pressed relentlessly inside. He pulled back just enough to spit onto the bloodied hole, then pressed back in, forcing his way into the tense body. Distantly, he heard the noises coming from Randall's mouth, like screams burning in acid, muted by the spit-wet fabric choking him. 

Daryl leaned close to Rick, pressing all his weight in keeping the struggling kid down on the ground as the man fucked into him again and again. All Rick could see was the back of his head, so different from Shane's familiar skull, that his throat clenched in terrified fury. His brother might be dying, and there was nothing he could do but hurt this worthless piece of garbage. Nothing to do but teach him a lesson.

Rick closed his eyes, tipping his head back as he focused on the sharp thrusts of his hips, the gagging screams and moans, the blood-slick grip around his cock. This was more than the kid deserved, more kindness than anyone deserved in this god-fucked world. 

He leaned to the side, blinding reaching out with one hand to grip Randall's bare leg. He found the bandages easily, digging his fingers in and twisting, pulling his leg up and to the side to get deeper. In a blinding burst of pleasure, Randall went quiet and limp around him, suddenly so loose and slick that there was no holding back, and Rick came with a defeated sob and howling black emptiness filling his soul.

Rick tripped backward as he pulled away, falling on his ass in the dirt and scooting to rest against the weathered side of the shed. Rusty, bloodied chains tinkled in the darkness, loud against his gasping breath, and Rick wrapped his hands around them, feeling the links bite into his skin. If only they had held a little longer, if only the little bastard hadn't been able to slip out of those cuffs... 

Rick leaned to the side, feeling foul-tasting bile fill his mouth. He let it drip from his lips into the dirt, the dry heaves shaking his skin and making his stomach ache. When it finally stopped and his breathing settled, he opened his eyes to see Daryl sitting peacefully a few feet away, his knife in his hand and a contemplative look on his face like a fucking red-neck Buddha. 

"He's just passed out. If you want--"

"No," Rick growled. It hurt to talk, to breathe, to move, but he roused himself to stand on his feet. He tucked himself away with a negligent gesture, closing up his fly with shaking hands. "As long as Shane lives, he lives." 

Daryl nodded, sliding his knife away and getting to his feet in a single fluid movement. "Your call. So what's next?"

Rick looked down at the crumpled body. Daryl must have pulled his pants back into place while Rick was occupied. Randall was on his side, his head at a painful angle as his mud-and-snot streaked face remained slack in sleep. His breath whistled through his nose, his lips working restlessly against the gag. Every inch of exposed skin on his back and side was bruised and marked, and his chest was smeared with filth, several long scratches sluggishly dribbling blood into the dirt. 

The weight of his belt felt good in his hands. It seemed to fill a little bit of that emptiness inside, like a bolt of energy into a dying engine. He slipped the end of the belt into the buckle, creating a noose. Lifting Randall's head, he slipped the belt over his face and tightened it against his throat. Not so tight that he would suffocate, but tight enough that he'd have to know it was there. It'd serve as yet another reminder that the length of his life was measured in Shane's breath. Rick jerked the make-shift leash, making Randall's body shake bonelessly before he dropped him back against the ground. 

"He'll be out for a while. Let's go check on Shane."

**Author's Note:**

> I received [this request](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/26209704) in the comments of another Randall fic, and my first thought was how could I do this and have it fit in with season 2? Coz I'm all about rationalizing things. Then I just decided to take it as a challenge, and write something without thinking about it. Thank you for the idea, alpha_with_the_red_eyes143. Coz there needs to be more Randall fic.


End file.
